One misty morning, the cloud hung low over distant hills like a soft grey blanket. The October sun infused the mist with a golden glow. I grabbed my camera, and headed up to the woods, where the sunshine was breaking through one ray at a time: the mist lending substance to the sunbeams. The leaves, on the cusp of their autumnal colours, sparkled, and the mist drifted, dreamlike, between the trees.
Few and far between are these days of perfect light and softly shrouding grey. By the time the mist cleared, and I trudged home to warm myself with a cup of tea, its dampness had penetrated my bones. Only the bright sunshine remained. The sunshine, and the memory of magic.